


Maybe He's Lucky

by girlintheglen



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-19
Updated: 2016-10-19
Packaged: 2018-08-23 10:06:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8323735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girlintheglen/pseuds/girlintheglen





	

  
…….

If he thought about it for longer than a minute he reckoned the entire incident might be put down to bad **luck**. Ordinarily, Illya didn't believe in such things, and he continued to defy and polarize himself by being intolerant of the popular myth that there was something called Solo's Luck.

It was a myth.  It had to be. Because if Napoleon were the recipient of this extraordinary thing, this life altering phenomenon that made him somehow invincible to the tragedies regularly suffered by mere mortals, then what was it that, with clocklike regularity, landed his sorry ass (he'd heard that term somewhere and decided he liked it), in such a predictable mess?

While Napoleon was still schmoozing with a general's daughter on a private yacht somewhere in the Mediterranean, Illya was lounging alongside a filthy toilet and an even more odorous Mark Slate.  Both of them had superficial injuries and neither of them had a clue how to escape.  This time, perhaps for the last time, THRUSH had captured and managed to incarcerate the two agents in a seemingly escape proof cell with enough armed guards to insure the enemy within would remain there.

"Illya?  You look a bit pensive mate.  Any ideas on how we get out of here?"  Mark was still optimistic, although his normally cheerful mood was waning by the minute.  Illya's head was wrapped with a bandage, a shock of blond hair standing straight up above the soiled edges.  Blood had seeped through from a cut on his scalp, compliments of the same woman who was now entertaining his partner aboard her father's floating pleasure palace.

"Sadly, I do not.' Illya looked once more at the British agent, at his sagging arm that he supported by wrapping his belt around his wrist and then around his neck and back again.  UNCLE agents were nothing if not industrious and creative in their attempts to not simply give up and die.

"How is your arm?"  He asked the question, knowing already that Mark's arm was badly wrenched, if not broken.

"Illya, we can still make it out of here.  All we need is one moment of opportunity.  How's your head?"  Three good arms and one uninjured head between them.  Illya rolled his eyes unintentionally, regretting it immediately when it set off a series of sparks and bright lights.  This might just break him of the habit.

"One moment you say?  We have no weapons, and if I take a swing at him I might miss.  My vision wavers into double images periodically.  You only have one good arm… ' Mark frowned at the uncharacteristic negative response to a need for action.  The Russian was always ready for action, and this was not the time for a change in attitude or determination.

"We can do this, and if you swing and miss you will at least have gotten in a good swing.  Bloody hell, Illya, since when do you give up?"

That seemed to provoke Illya just enough to jerk him back to his responsibility.  He was the senior agent here, and even with double vision he had enough pride to shake off whatever was threatening to hold him back.

"My apologies Mark, you are absolutely correct.'' A wink and a crooked smile made Mark breathe a little easier.  They could do this, it was just a matter of timing.

The time came around with a new guard, just before the sun was setting.  The man was not yet completely alert, and in fact suspected nothing from the two ailing UNCLE agents.  When he opened the door to inspect their cell and announce that the evening meal would be down within the hour, it was upstaged by a different announcement.  Illya's fist slammed into the guard's face as Mark yelled out 'straight ahead'; it was uncouth and ungainly, but the punch landed where it was needed and the unsuspecting guard landed in a heap.  Mark was as quick as possible in retrieving the weapon and keys while Illya backed up to the wall for support.  He needed to stay upright, gain some equilibrium while Mark checked the corridor for more THRUSH.

"All's clear Illya.  Let's get out of here!"  Illya grabbed a handful of Mark's shirt as the Brit led the way, his good arm wrapped around the stock of the gun as the big red scope led the way.  Fortunately it was feeding time for the guards, so all was clear as the agents made their way out of the building and into the surrounding woods.

"It was too easy.  Are you certain no one is following us?"  Illya was disbelieving of the easy escape.  Napoleon would no doubt take credit and tell him that Solo's Luck was rubbing off on the hapless Russian.  It wasn't luck, it was skill and …

"We were lucky I guess.  No one around, and it's dark now.  I guess we are two lucky agents."  Mark was happy with the results.  He felt confident that they could walk their way out of this patch of trees and find help.

A thousand miles away, Napoleon finally found what he was looking for as he searched aboard the yacht.  The young woman who had orchestrated his partner's capture was unconscious, compliments of the drug in her wine.  A **letter,** composed by the head of THRUSH's central committee, outlined a new operation intended to upset the balance of power in a region rife with disorder and corruption.  THRUSH intended to intervene and take over where the General and his counterparts had failed.  The daughter was convinced that she would retain her wealth and be assigned an important role in the new government.  The letter's content, now in the hands of UNCLE, would ensure that her plans remain unfulfilled.

It was several days before the three men from UNCLE were reunited around Alexander Waverly's conference table.  Illya was no longer wearing bandages, although his hair had been cut to conform to the patch shaved for the purpose of stitching up his scalp.  He wasn't happy about it, but it would grow back.  Mark's arm was in a sling rather than the belt he had previously used.  Napoleon was just very relieved that his two friends and fellow agents had lived to tell the tale now being recited to their superior.

"Gentlemen, in spite of your hardships…' He looked at Illya and Mark now, acknowledging the circumstances they had overcome, "and because of the retrieval of the letter from THRUSH Central, we can now intervene along with the appropriate government agencies and stop this invasive action.  Well done, all of you.  I expect written reports by tomorrow afternoon.  That is all, good day."

As the three agents exited the office to the sound of the pneumatic doors swishing closed behind them, there was no conversation until they reached the elevator.  Napoleon turned to look at Illya and Mark, grateful once more that they had survived the mission.  He knew his part had been less dangerous, that his cover had required that he not intervene when the General's daughter exposed them and sent them to an uncertain consequence.

"Illya, Mark… I, well… you made it out.  I'm sorry I couldn't help."  There, that was all he could say or do.

"You do not owe us an apology.  It was your job to work your side of the mission, and you did it successfully.  We had out part to play and, it was cut short.  But we are all here now."  Illya knew his friend regretted his inability to help.  Sometimes the job just went that way.

"Hey, luck worked for us this time.  We made it out no worse for wear and you got what you needed.  For my part, it's as it should be."  Mark was happy, although he would be glad to be back and partnered with April.  He sort of enjoyed rescuing a damsel in distress instead of the grumpy Russian.

"You're right Mark.  Luck, skill, or whatever you need to call it.  You two beat the odds, I got the letter… ' Napoleon let out a sigh as he slapped them each on the back.

"Comrades, right tovarisch?"

"Da, comrades."

"Right-o then, mates.  May I suggest a round or two, I'm good for the first one."

The elevator dinged the announcement as the door opened to an empty car.  The three walked in, happy and confident about who they were and what they served.

"Save the world, anyone?" Napoleon's quip was met with smiles all around.

"May we do it tomorrow?"

"I second that."

"Tomorrow then.  Tonight someone else can do it."

Friends, comrades… UNCLE agents. 

 


End file.
